


Lord Blackwater's Downfall (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [57]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blackmail, M/M, Photographs, Scandal, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, religious differences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The ever-faster advance of technology comes to the fore, and predictably, there is someone ready to abuse it – only to find that, like the proverbial knife, it could cut both ways.





	Lord Blackwater's Downfall (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avanie/gifts).



Throughout this final and expanded version of "Elementary", I have advanced several reasons as to why cases – most notably the last, the most requested of all the unpublished achievements of my friend – were not released to the general public, several of whom became quite affronted that I was deliberately and maliciously withholding the achievements of their dear, darling Sherlock (who is currently laughing uproarously behind my back as he makes me write those words, damn him!). But this particular case stands out because so many people could have been damaged by its immediate publication. Fortunately some thorough checking with the help of a certain lady that I have yet to introduce in our tales yielded a full list of all those affected, and after some copious letter-writing I was frankly quite surprised that, without exception, they all agreed that the case should now be published. 

I should add, before starting, that amongst those affected by this crime were Sherlock and myself. Let us continue.

+~+~+

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

I looked across at my friend in surprise. It was springtime in Baker Street, but as so often, someone had forgotten to inform the English weather, which had continued with a cold, dense winter fog for over a month now. I was never more glad that the previous Christmas, Sherlock had gifted me a voucher for a most expensive clothes store that I could never have dared to aspire to on my salary, and that I had been able to purchase some insanely warm winter vests from them, which had stopped me from having to tend to my widespread patients through chattering teeth on the days when the surgery's fires burnt low.

“An old saying”, I said, as I warmed myself by our vastly superior fire. “Not really true, I would say.”

The pause that followed went on far too long. I turned and looked at him.

“I doubt that you will think so after you have seen the “Times” today”, he said gravely. I felt my stomach drop.

“What is in it?” I asked.

“Us”, he said, handing me the paper. I took it, sat down and read the infamous “Barking Hound” column that he had marked:

'Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show is, I have to concede, one that matches up to what I had hitherto considered some seriously overblown publicity efforts, even by the 'standards' of our American cousins. I noted that the famed detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his ever-present shadow, Doctor John Watson, were both in attendance. I am frankly beginning to wonder If the doctor is some obedient lap-dog, following his mental master everywhere. And I do mean.... everywhere.'

I swallowed hard at the implication of the article. Sex between men was not something that happened in polite society; it was understood that male brothels existed and, by implication, there had to be a market for.... that sort of thing, but any man who was publicly homosexual could expect at very least social ruin, if not worse. Little wonder that some of my clients that day had looked at me rather strangely, or that that nosy Mrs. Whittle had asked about 'your dear friend'. This could ruin me.

This would ruin Sherlock.

“Who said this?” I growled.

“Bacchus came round earlier”, Sherlock said, seemingly unaffected by the whole thing. “Naturally he is concerned; not so much for himself but for Mother, who will be reaching for her revolver and hunting the man down herself if we do not. Fortunately my lounge-lizard of a brother has his uses, and he was able to identify the mysterious 'Hound'. It is young Lord Robert Blackwater, the youngest son of Lord Theobald.”

“He has to be stopped!” I insisted. Sherlock sighed.

“I have had concerns about the man for some little time”, he said, “but had thought his witterings mostly harmless. However, in the past few months he has become more and more open in his accusations levelled at various people, from all levels of society. It is time that he was dealt with, once and for all.”

“What will you do?” I asked,

“To start with, I have asked his father if he will pay me the courtesy of a visit tonight”, Sherlock said. “As you know, the family live a little way out into Essex, but I happen to know that he is one of the sponsors of the show that we saw the other night, and is in the capital. We shall ask him about his wayward son, and then carry on from there.”

+~+~+

Lord Theobald Blackwater was far from what I had imagined, a tired-looking man in his fifties. I knew that he had four sons, and that he was separated from his wife, who was a lady of low character and even lower morality. The renegade son, Robert, was the only one who lived with his mother and whoever she was currently sponging off.

“I wish that I could help you, Mr. Holmes”, the nobleman sighed. “I really do. Robert is rapidly going off the rails of late, and unless something is done to stop him, I fear that it will end in disaster for both him and his victims.”

“Why do you not disinherit him?” I asked, thinking to myself that our guest was being less than a man in dealing with a problem that he had created. He sighed unhappily.

“Our family is rather awkwardly situated in that aspect”, he said. “My father – the Earl of Kingstown, as you know – is very old and set in his ways. He would never countenance disinheriting any of his descendants for anything short of full-blooded murder, and perhaps not even then. And he maintains an iron grip on the estate. I could disinherit the boy, doctor, but he would still inherit a quarter of my estate because of the wording of my father's will.”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

“You and your father are of the old faith?” he asked at last. The nobleman looked surprised.

“Yes”, he said warily. “Is that a problem?”

“And your wayward son?” Sherlock pressed.

“Robbie 'does not do religion'”, the nobleman said sourly. “He was of course baptized as a Catholic, as were all my sons, but the faith has seen little if anything of him since attaining adulthood. My other three sons all attend church regularly.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock smiled. “Thank you, sir. I have to tell you that your son has made an allegation against my friend the doctor here which I myself take great offence to. I fully intend to make sure that he does not repeat that error.”

“Sir”, the nobleman said, rising to his feet, “be fully assured that in any amelioration you may achieve in the way my offspring conducts himself, through whatever means, you will have my full support!”

He bowed, and left. Sherlock remained thoughtful for several minutes, staring into the fire before leaping to his feet.

“I must go out”, he said. “Alone.”

I had been about to follow him, but sank back dispiritedly into my chair. He smiled consolingly at me.

“I need to employ the services of one of our fair city's less reputable citizens”, he said. “By which I really mean criminal. He is not someone who welcomes guests, otherwise I would surely take you along.”

“Oh, I said, slightly mollified. “Very well.”

“If you wish to do me a favour”, he said, “you could make a list of all those accused by this vile person in the copies of the “Times” that we still have. And to extend your efforts to the older copies that I know Mrs. Harvelle keeps around. That would help me greatly.”

I felt instinctively that it would probably help him very little, but that he cared for my feelings at a time like this was more warming than even the flames a short distance away. I smiled at him as he left, then set to work.

+~+~+

Fortune favoured me that day (or maybe she loathed Lord Robert Blackwater as much as everyone else). I sent down for a coffee whilst I searched and, unusually, Miss Joanna Harvelle brought it up. She stared in amazement at the mess of papers everywhere.

“What are you doing?” she asked, doubtless wondering just where her mother might bury my body if she got to see this mess. 

“I am looking for articles in the “Times” about that damnable 'Barking Hound' columnist”, I told her. “Sherlock keeps lots of old papers, but getting him to maintain any sort of system is a nightmare.”

“Maybe you should try "Razzle-Dazzle"?” she suggested. I stared at her in confusion.

“Is that some sort of cleaning powder?” I ventured. 

She tried not to laugh at my social ignorance, and nearly pulled it off. But not quite.

“It is a magazine full of nothing but gossip”, she giggled. “The fellow who calls himself 'the Hound' started out with them before he joined the "Times"; I read somewhere that he tried to get out for the better pay, but in the end they settled for his articles appearing in both at the same time, although I think that he does some things only for one or the other.”

I stared at her and grinned.

“Does your mother know about your choice of reading material?” I asked.

“I suspect so”, she said cheerily. “She 'borrows' all my copies when I am out of the house and replaces, and then replaces them very carefully afterwards.”

What with that and the knife collection, I made a mental note never to get on the wrong side of Miss Harvelle. 

“You can have all my back copies, doctor”, she said affably. “Good thing is, his article is always in the same place, page three, so you won't have to continue your paper chase.”

“Thank you!” I said fervently.

The list I was therefore able to give Sherlock when he returned later that day was long indeed. Men have taken a walk along the bed of Old Father Thames for annoying half this number of people that Lord Blackwater had notched up. Sherlock thanked me and smiled knowingly, but would say nothing, no matter how much I pouted.

+~+~+

I have said that Sherlock tackled many cases both great and small in my time with him. Now, in the midst of this decidedly serious case, he solved a small mystery that was trifling in the extreme, but proved somewhat timely as it brought us the good offices of our landlady just when he most needed them.

221B was, as I have said, the right-hand part of the former Glendower Mansion. The old property had been separated out into separate houses in most aspects, but the three properties that superseded it did share one thing; a most copious coal-bunker at the back, into which deliveries for all three houses were placed. All three landladies had a key to the place, and when Mrs. Harvelle approached us one day over a sack of coal that had gone missing from it, I at first thought it only a minor matter (though the fact that she owned and knew how to use a rifle prevented me from saying as much). Sherlock, however, took the matter very seriously, and after some quick investigations was able to finger the coal-merchant who, by careful placing and marking of sacks, had been swindling the three landladies out of a whole sackful of coal every week or so. He also used his contacts to force the fellow to deliver double what he had taken, and our landlady was very grateful.

Which, as things turned out, was all to the good.

+~+~+

Just over a week after the 'coal case', we had a caller at 221B. The Earl of Kingstown.

“I would not have come”, he grumbled, “but you did that service for my dear friend the Countess of New Ross, Mr. Holmes, so I suppose that I owe you this much. Although if it is about that grandson of mine, then you are wasting your breath.”

“That is a pity”, Sherlock said. “I have a source who is usually more than reliable, and has told me that your grandson has been indulging in some rather, ahem, irregular practices.”

“Poppycock!” the old man snorted.

“Well, that remains to be seen”, Sherlock said, “although of course....”

He got no further, for the door burst open and a sallow-faced young man burst through unannounced, Mrs. Harvelle's maid Mary flapping uselessly behind him.

“That is all right, Mary”, Sherlock said consolingly. “You may leave us. This personage is expected.”

“Grandfather!” the man burst out. “Thank God that I found you!”

So this must be the villainous Lord Robert Blackwater. Yes, he looked the part, a ferret-faced unkempt personage who was waving a brown envelope about for some reason. He glared at us both, and there was a dangerous look of triumph in your eyes.

“I always thought you interfering busybodies might try to stick your noses in where they weren't wanted”, he said, catching his breath. “And now I've got you both, or at least the good doctor here. Or should I say, the _bad_ doctor?”

“What do you mean, Robert?” his grandfather demanded. The young man turned to him.

“I had a tip last week that the good doctor, for all his propriety, liked to indulge in the ladies of the night when he thought society wasn't looking”, the man said, to my utter astonishment. “So I got one of my lads to follow him, and this afternoon I got a telegram to say that he was headed down the docks for some good old hanky-panky!”

I was sure that I had not done that. Fairly sure. Although the strange expression on Sherlock's face had me worried.

“I paid one of the girls to approach him and lure him in”, the man grinned, “and she slipped something into his drink. So no matter how much the good doctor denies it, I doubt very much that he will be able to deny the evidence... of a photograph.”

“I have indeed heard it said that the camera never lies”, Sherlock said, far too calmly in my opinion. “But I would strongly advise you not to show what is in that envelope, sir. It would most definitely not be in your best interests.”

The young lord sneered at him.

“I shall do as I like, sir!” he snapped, opening the envelope and taking out a large photograph. "The British public will know exactly what to think about the subject of this photograph when they see him in such a position!”

He slammed the photograph down onto the table where his grandfather was sitting, and stared at us both triumphantly. Sherlock was, I had considered, taking these outrageous allegations rather too calmly for my liking, and he just smiled lazily. The earl stared in confusion at the picture, then tipped his head to one side.

“Robert”, he said quietly, “what are you doing with that feather in this photograph?”

I took a deep breath and looked at the picture, as did the suddenly puzzled young man. It showed someone who was very clearly not me (thank God!) and was equally very clearly the young lord across from me. The latter spluttered, then stopped, clearly working something out.

“That bastard who bumped me on the stairs!” he exclaimed. “He must have swapped the pictures somehow!”

“What person was this?” the earl demanded, as Sherlock took the picture and crossed the room, pressing the bell for the maid.

“Short chap in a long coat, smelt of fish or something foul”, the young man said. “He raced out of the front door as if his life depended on it. Nearly bowled over the landlady on his way out.”

There was a knock at the door – that was fast, I thought – and to my surprise Mrs. Harvelle appeared.

“I was just fetching some bedding from the chest along the corridor”, she explained, “so I thought that I would answer and save Mary a trip. Is something wrong, gentlemen?”

“You were there!” Lord Blackwater said, looking more cheerful. “You saw him!”

She looked at him in confusion.

“Saw who, sir?” she asked.

“The man who pushed past me on the stairs”, he snapped. “About my age and wore a long coat. Smelt of fish. He knocked you back in the hallway on his way out.”

She stared at him anxiously.

“Sir, the only gentlemen who have come to the house today are His Grace” - there was a definite pause before she added balefully - “and, I suppose, yourself. I have been writing in my private room near the door for the past hour or more, and I can say with assuredness that we have had no other visitors.”

He seemed to have lost the power of speech at that. We all stared at him.

“Grandfather, they are all in on it!” he protested. “Besides, you can see that this picture has been taken only very recently. I was at home all yesterday, apart from a short visit to a local drinking establishment.”

“How short?” I wondered aloud.

He glared at me, but then his eyes narrowed.

“Wait a minute”, he said, evidently working something out. “I remember now. This gentleman came over and purchased me a drink, mistaking me for an old friend of his. There must have been something in it; I remember waking up at the table.” He turned on Sherlock. “You had me drugged, and set this picture up.”

Mrs. Harvelle sniggered. I did not blame her.

“I would stick with that story”, Sherlock smiled unpleasantly. “It may be your best hope of explaining this second photograph. I am sorry, Your Grace, but when I said that your grandson was indulging in irregular practices, I spoke the truth.”

He placed a second picture in front of the earl. This time, I did reach for my bag.

“Robert!” the nobleman roared. “What is the meaning of this outrage?”

“Grandfather?” the young man asked, clearly confused. 

“This is a picture of you, taking part in.....” the old earl drew in a deep breath before he could continue, _“a Protestant service!_ ”

His grandson stared at him in confusion, then down at the picture as if he could not quite believe it. Then he made to grab it, presumably to either tear it up or throw it into the fire, but Sherlock moved faster than even I would have thought possible, and seized the picture away from him. The young man stared at him in shock, then his face darkened.

“This is a fake!” the young man asserted loudly.

Sherlock was examining the second photograph, and had picked up a magnifying glass.

“This picture was indeed taken yesterday”, he said. “Sunday. It is only just visible but, close to the camera, the picture-taker has caught the front page of a newspaper on the table. The date is quite clear.”

“Is that really the best that you can come up with, Robert?” the earl said hotly. “You are claiming that these two gentlemen somehow drugged you, and made you take part in a... a....” - he clearly had to build up to the dreadful word - _“a Protestant service_? Sir, your eyes were very clearly wide open in that picture. You are no blood of mine!”

He turned to Sherlock.

“I am sorry to trouble you gentlemen”, he said, “but do either of you know of any trustworthy solicitors in the area? I feel a sudden and pressing urge to rewrite my will.”

Sherlock smiled.

“As it happens, there is one across the....”

The door slammed behind our other 'guest'.

+~+~+

“We owe Mrs. Harvelle for playing her part in this too”, Sherlock smiled later. “I doubt that the 'Barking Hound' will be making many further allegations, now he has been disinherited and thrown out of employment.”

“How did you manage those pictures?” I asked.

“It was obviously not young Lord Blackwater”, Sherlock said, “but I arranged for him to be unable to provide an alibi for when they were both taken. The man in the picture is a young actor friend of mine, who is amazingly adaptable in the parts he plays.”

“If not amazingly flexible!” I muttered, thinking of the first photograph. He smiled.

“It seemed appropriate”, he went on. “Young Robert Blackwater enjoyed attempting to ruin people's lives, so what more fitting way to stop him than by ruining his? I am sure that his family will most likely pay him off to go abroad somewhere, which might be the best solution all round, although I pity whichever part of the world may end up with him. Leopards do not change their spots.”

“The most obvious line of attack seemed to be the religious one. I knew that the earl was fervently Catholic, and that seeing any relative of his dabbling with 'the new faith' – well, safe to say that he would not be pleased. This morning someone anonymously sent his grandson a set of compromising pictures about a famous Londoner, and he could not resist coming round to challenge that person and boast about the forthcoming downfall. Or, possibly, hope for an offer of cash to 'forget' the whole thing.”

I was about to smile at that when it hit me.

“Wait a minute”, I said suspiciously. “He accused me.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“What were the other pictures of?” I demanded suspiciously.

“The gentleman whom young Lord Blackwater encountered on the stairs is one of the capital's top pickpockets”, Sherlock said, not answering my question. “He swapped over the envelopes without his quarry ever being aware of it.”

 _“What were the other pictures of?”_ I demanded. Someone was going to end up investigating his own murder damnably soon!

He grinned, and handed me an envelope identical to the one our unwanted guest had had. I opened it tentatively and looked at the three pictures inside, spreading them out on the table. Then I tipped my head sideways slightly, trying to take in what I was seeing. The “Times” - hell, even that rag “Razzle-Dazzle” – would pay a king's ransom for these!

“Is that even physically possible?” I wondered, silently thinking that I would never view a toilet-brush in the same light again.

“The camera never lies!” he smiled.

Sometimes I wondered what I saw in him!

+~+~+

Next, murder upon murder upon murder, and someone most unwelcome comes into our lives.


End file.
